


Reluctant Caretaker

by Quallian42



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo - Jaskier Edition [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Eskel is there, Geralt/Jaskier is assumed, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Lambert as Nurse Maid, Lambert has a potty mouth, M/M, Magical CPR, Poison, Protective Lambert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:00:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23165155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quallian42/pseuds/Quallian42
Summary: A stand alone story for my "Bad Things Happen (to Jaskier)" Bingo series.Jaskier is stung by a manticore and Lambert has to take care of him while Geralt and Eskel search for an antidote. Lambert thinks that this is bullshit.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo - Jaskier Edition [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1658455
Comments: 32
Kudos: 848





	Reluctant Caretaker

“Why do I have to watch him?” Lambert complained, pinning Jaskier’s shoulders to the ground as the bard writhed against the manticore venom crawling through his veins. 

“Because, you’re the cripple” Geralt answered shortly. He was bent over Jaskier’s arm, dressing the deceptively small wound with a tenderness that Lambert was absolutely planning to use against him later.

And really, that wasn’t even fair. Lambert’s femur wasn’t even sticking out anymore. Eskel had yanked everything back into place, bone and muscle knitting back together under strips of Lambert’s spare shirt already. 

The youngest Witcher loosened his hold as Jaskier calmed again, and backed away, pretending not to notice the soft circles Geralt was rubbing into the bard’s palm, or the muttered platitudes.

It wasn’t fair. Sure, Lambert liked the loud little man that had latched on to Geralt, enjoyed the trouble he caused, but that didn’t mean he was at all happy about being a nursemaid, just because, technically, he couldn’t stand at the moment. Eskel was better at this sort of thing in general, and Geralt seemed to be swiftly transforming into a gooey domestic mush when it came to Jaskier. But, the antidote wasn’t going to find itself, and someone had to make sure that there was still a bard to use it on.

Eskel bodily lifted Geralt away from his companion as he passed by, depositing him next to Roach before mounting his own horse. “We’ll be back as soon as we can. A few hours at the latest.” He declared, waiting for Geralt to mount and leave the clearing. 

It didn’t need to be said that they would be returning with or without the little hellebore plant they were looking for. In a few hours it would be over either way. 

“Get a fire started and keep some water hot.” He continued.

“I know what to do” Lambert rolled his eyes.

“Keep your sword nearby. Don’t let him-“

“Will you fuck off already?” Lambert threw a pinecone at Eskel’s head. 

The other Witcher batted the offending missile away, and gazed down at the semi-conscious bard with a look that was almost as soppy as Geralt’s before kicking his horse into the opposite direction.

Lambert huffed, rolled Jaskier over onto his side in case he decided to puke again, and shoved a saddle bag against his back to keep him in place. Gritting his teeth, he dragged himself to a nearby patch of flat ground and started ripping up grass and tossing away sticks, clearing the way for a small camp fire.

“Fucking Manticores.”

. . .

“G’r’lt?” Long eyelashes fluttered and fever bright eyes blinked up and through the Witcher.

“Still No.” Lambert put a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder, waiting. It had been fifty-fifty odds over the past hour whether or not lucidity brought the worsening convulsive tremors, or simply confusion and restlessness. 

Jaskier sighed and let his head loll, hot cheek brushing against Lambert’s knuckles. 

“ ‘bert?” 

“Right”. Lambert gripped the shoulder a little more tightly, not wanting to jostle the sick man. The poison was progressing steadily, dark purple lines already crawling up an over one limp arm, paralysis setting in to the injured limb, causing it to flop about when Jaskier began to shake. His fever had climbed too, and a persistent wheeze had settled into his chest.

“You need to drink something” Lambert said, once he decided that Jaskier was in as good as shape as could be expected, and at least somewhat conscious.

Jaskier blew a raspberry to show what he thought of the idea.

“Wasn’t really a request. Up you go” Lambert hauled Jaskier’s top half up and drug himself, painfully, into a position where the smaller man could lean against his chest, bracketed between his legs. He propped himself up against a sturdy sapling in turn. Jaskier offered no resistance, but no real help either, though he seemed to rouse slightly. He let Lambert bring the water skin up to his lips but only managed a few mouthfuls of water. It was better than nothing. 

“How are you doing?” It was a stupid question, but Lambert asked anyway. He could sense the sickness, hear the strained heart and lungs, smell the sour venom. But Jaskier liked chatter and Lambert had run out of anything useful to do.

“Mmm. Hurts.” 

“I bet.” Lambert had never personally dealt with Manticore venom, but knew it was usually fatal for humans. Shooting pains. Paralysis and convulsions. It fucked up the heart rhythm too and shut down the lungs. 

Monsters that caused painful lingering deaths usually offered bigger payouts than those that offered swifter ends. Humans seemed to like messy deaths less than clean ones, for some odd reason. Lambert liked monsters that people were willing to pay a lot of money to be rid of. 

In this case, the point was moot. They’d be able to scavenge some spell ingredients from the corpse, but there wasn’t any bounty. The small company had simply been traveling through the woods, up to Kaer Morhen for the Winter. Just bad timing and bad luck to be the ones attacked. 

Bad luck for the manticore too, dead before it had much of a chance. Bad luck for Lambert, who had his leg smashed to pieces. Bad luck for the little bardling, who had suffered a small scratch in the fracas, only a drop or two of venom getting in, thankfully. Geralt and Eskel predictably come out smelling like roses, hair artfully mussed, with just enough sweat to look dashingly heroic. Assholes. Geralt even caught Jaskier as he swooned.

“You alright?” Jaskier asked, breath huffing against the Witcher’s shoulder as he forced the words out.

“I’m fine.” Lambert answered, automatically. He was better than Jaskier, and nothing as inconsequential as a compound leg fracture really counted in the larger scheme of things.

Jaskier clumsily patted his thigh, offering comfort and Lambert rolled his eyes.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asked and Lambert stiffened.

“No. I’m Lambert.”

The bard laughed weakly. “No. Geralt. Roach. Eskel. They’re alright?”

“They’re all fine.” Lambert let Jaskier’s hand stay on his leg. It seemed he was planning on being lucid for a while this time.

“Good. The manticore?” Jaskier’s breath hitched, body going rigid for a moment, against the pain that must be sparking along his nerves.

“Very, very dead.”

“Poor thing. It was beautiful.”

The manticore, in Lambert’s professional opinion, was not, in any way, shape, or form, good looking. Body like a starving lion, huge bat wings and twisting horns, a scorpion tale the size of a man.

“You have a very fucked up idea of beauty.”

“Hmm”

“That was already pretty obvious, considering who you’re sleeping with” Lambert teased, and immediately regretted it as Jaskier raised his head and sent it slamming back into the Witcher’s face with a surprising amount of force. 

“Ow. Dammit!” 

Jaskier hummed again, sounding smug.

“Fine. No insulting the little wife.” He quickly reached out, placing his palm against Jaskier’s forehead and pushing it back down to rest against the Witcher’s own shoulder before he could be headbutted again. Heat radiated against his hand, and Jaskier stilled, going limp and pliant against his chest, the small tussle sapping him of his strength.

“They’ll be back soon.” Lambert offered, awkwardly trying to offer comfort. He made no move to settle the bard back on the ground. He wasn’t sure if it was the more upright position, or the feeling of being molly-coddled in big strong Witcher arms, but Jaskier seemed to be breathing easier. 

He lifted his hand away but replaced it when Jaskier let out a small whine. Hesitantly, he let his hand slide backward, soothing over the sweat dampened hair.

“That’s nice.” Jaskier murmured, then after a beat, “Geralt does that. He talks to me too”

“the fuck?” 

“He does.” The bard sounded defensive, words beginning to slur. “When I don’t feel good. Or after... y’know.”

“I do not know. And I do not want to know. Shit, that’s the last thing I want to know.” 

“It’s okay.” Jaskier patted at his leg again, uncoordinated. “You don’t have to talk to me. You don’t like me.” 

“Oh, fuck you.” Lambert huffed. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t like you, dumbass.” He shifted the two of them, settling his back more firmly against the bark of a small tree, straightening the young bard out against his chest. Jaskier’s pulse had started skipping again and he began to wheeze in earnest.

Lambert returned to carding his fingers through Jaskier’s hair.

“I bet Geralt never told you about the time he almost got his dick chomped off by a warg, did he?”

Lambert talked, and kept talking, long after Jaskier fell back into unconsciousness.

. . .

Jaskier did not wake for the next three spells. Body jerking and convulsing against the advancing venom. Spidery purple veins now peeked out from his collar, winding up his neck. Lambert held him to his chest, gritting his teeth as the bard’s foot spasmed and kicked out against the Witcher’s broken leg. He counted the seconds, the minutes. When Jaskier was done, Lambert forced his finger into a slack mouth, clearing it of spittle and foam. He wiped the sweat from his face as best he could, rearranged the paralyzed limbs.

When Jaskier woke, only for a few heartbeats each time, he wasn’t lucid. If he could, he would call for Geralt. If he couldn’t, he just cried or screamed. His breath rattled. His heart stuttered.

Lambert held Jaskier and continued to talk, telling him about the monsters he had fought, or the places he had seen. 

. . .

The last spell, surprisingly, was not the worst. It had been hours, and Lambert was straining his ears towards the woods. Geralt and Eskel must have turned back by now, with or without the damned flower. Time was running out. He was so focused on the surrounding darkness that he nearly missed it. 

Jaskier, exhausted, fevered, so close to the end of the strength had simply trembled, back barely arching against the weak spasm. And then he had stopped breathing.

Lambert swore and cast Axii, reaching into Jaskier’s mind without hesitation. He dove past the pain, soothing the confusion and fear as he went, focused on the spark that made up the little bardling.

“Breathe, you stupid fucker.” He commanded, and nearly cheered as Jaskier’s chest lurched upward obediently. Once. He hadn’t been sure if it would work.

“Again, dammit”

Again, Jaskier’s chest rose, then stilled. His heart stuttered and stopped.

“Come on. Keep breathing”. Lambert ordered, grabbing Jaskier’s hand and pressing it hard against the carotid artery in his own neck, so that the bard could feel his pulse. It was racing, nearly fast enough to mimic a human’s normal pace. He took deep, exaggerated breaths.

“Match my heartbeat. Keep your heart going. Keep your lungs breathing. Match my breath. Come on Jaskier. Heart. Lungs. Heart. Lungs. Keep going, Jask. Keep going” Lambert pushed his will deeper into Jaskier’s mind, and Jaskier responded. His heart lurched and restarted. His lungs struggled but continued to suck in and push out air like a mechanical doll that the Witcher had once seen in a faraway court.

Lambert continued to control the bard, keeping him alive. He let everything else go, focusing all his concentration on the human that had managed to become close to the witchers. It might have only been a few minutes, or possibly hours that he kept him alive. He wasn’t even sure when Geralt and Eskel returned, or if they had been successful. His entire world had shrunk down to a pair of lungs and a tired heart.

“Heart. Lungs. Heart. Lungs. Keep Going, Jask. Keep Going.” The mantra repeated, over and over, running through his mind, over the bridge of Axii, into Jaskier’s. “Keep Going, Jask. Keep Going.” 

. . .

In the end, Jaskier had lived. Eskel had returned with the stupid little beautiful plant, had brewed the tincture and forced it down Jaskier’s throat. Geralt had wormed into Jaskier’s mind beside Lambert, untangling the bond, replacing it with his own will until the bard was breathing on his own again. 

Lambert had promptly leaned over, puked, and passed out. Luckily, in that order.

By the time he woke again, it was dark. A horse blanket had been thrown over him, and what smelled like Jaskier’s cloak had been shoved under his head. He blinked the cobwebs from his eyes and let his gaze roam around the clearing.

Eskel nodded at him from where he was stationed near the neatly dismembered and parceled out manticore body, keeping watch. 

Across the way he saw Geralt and Jaskier, sharing a bed roll. Geralt was either asleep or feigning it, armed wrapped tightly around the worn-out looking bard, nose buried against his neck. 

Lambert could only hope Jaskier was worn out from the venom. There were still a lot of things he did not want to know.

As if the young human could read his thoughts, Jaskier cracked open his eyes and smiled.

“Thank you.” The voice was soft and cracked, but Lambert picked it up easily with his Witcher ears. Knowing Jaskier would have to strain to hear his response he just lifted his hand and waved it dismissively.

“Are you okay?” Jaskier asked, tilting his head to one side as Geralt tightened his grip and burrowed his nose further into his neck.

Lambert thought a moment, flexed his leg with a wince and let his hand wobble side to side to convey a ‘sort of’ meaning.

“Can I help?” 

Lambert shook his head, then mimed tucking his hands under his head, telling the young bard to go back to sleep.

Jaskier huffed, and then elbowed Geralt as he snorted in amusement behind him.

Lambert lifted a middle finger up a little higher, so that the older Witcher could see it clearly.

“Good night, Lambert” Jaskier said, voice sweet and affectionate, turning and wriggling more deeply into Geralt’s hold. “Thank you.”

Lambert caught Geralt’s eye over Jaskier’s shoulder. The older Witcher’s face was soft, fond, and grateful.

“Don’t look at me like that you soppy old bastard.” He muttered, then, feeling like he needed to reclaim at least a shred of his dignity added. “and I told him about that warg.”

Lambert fell back asleep to the sound of Geralt’s exasperated growl and Eskel’s muffled laughter.

That bard was going to make them all soft.


End file.
